


Fantasma

by Takigawa Aki (akanoaki)



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, M/M, TYL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akanoaki/pseuds/Takigawa%20Aki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been too long since Mukuro's left for his mission, too long since he's left his messages. He has no right to dwell so firmly entrenched in Kyouya's mind, which should be his alone. He has no right to make Kyouya so relieved when he walks in and presses their lips together.</p><p>He has no right to hurt him like this. But Rokudou Mukuro was always so melodramatic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fantasma

**Author's Note:**

> **Soundtrack:** Sleeping With Ghosts - Placebo

This wasn't what he signed up for.  
This wasn't what he expected.  
This wasn't what was supposed to happen.  
These hands. These weren't supposed to be able to touch him like this.  
These eyes. These weren't supposed to melt him like this.  
And these lips...  
He wasn't supposed to be able to break these walls.

How it started, he could never figure out. Maybe it was when he'd begun having dreams of scarlet roses and blood too red to be real. By the time Rokudou Mukuro had shown up at his doorstep and pushed him against the wall, it felt like their affair had already been going on for months. That was how he fell into bed so easily, parted his lips as eagerly as a lover. And when they made love it felt like he was whole in a way he'd never realized that he hadn't been whole before. It was infuriating that the man who had broken him a decade before now completed him.

It wasn't love. He knew that, and he was happy with that. Love made people stupid. This was some sort of symbiosis, the basest of animal instinct. It wasn't only pleasure, no, of that he was aware. While other people gave jewelry as gifts, enjoyed nights out with their special person, he couldn't fathom something so domestic shared between them. He couldn't even think the word boyfriend. Lover, perhaps. But he liked the word mate the best. He wondered every once in a while if their specific kind of animal mated for life. Why not? He didn't want to imagine anyone else owning him like this.

The only reason he could tolerate it was the fact that he could feel as if he owned this man just as much as he was owned. Mukuro was his as much as Kyouya was Mukuro's. He could tell somehow, by the way those odd eyes followed him across the room as if he were a magnet for his gaze, or how he didn't seem to be able to stop himself from reaching out to brush Kyouya's arm when he stepped past. Maybe Mukuro was trapped even more than he was. That thought was always satisfying, to think that by being so vulnerable to a touch, he was creating a vulnerability in his mate even deeper. He liked that.

What he didn't like were these missions. He especially didn't like that Mukuro agreed to them. He'd whispered once, when they were alone, that he liked having something interesting to do. That by complying with Sawada Tsunayoshi's requests he was becoming all the more entrenched in the Vongola, placing himself in the position to take it down. Sometimes Kyouya wondered if he really planned on that anymore, or if he'd found a reason to be satisfied with where he was.

But it didn't matter for now. What mattered was that he'd been gone for months and there'd been no word for exactly seventeen days. He glared at the mark on his calendar sometimes, on the last day he'd received a message. It was a short text, nothing unusual; he couldn't risk himself with anything more conspicuous, deep in an enemy family as he was. See you soon. That was all it had said. And seventeen days later...

The papers in front of him all blurred together. It was infuriating that he couldn't concentrate on them. What right do you have to disturb me like this? None at all. And he would rather have been angry at Mukuro for occupying his mind than at himself for being distracted. He knew better than this. The illusionist was an annoying man, with his tricks and his rotten sense of humour. There was no way to predict what he would do. Maybe even he didn't know. Perhaps he'd simply changed his mind after sending the text and decided to stay longer. It wasn't as if he had any clue how much this bothered his mate.

For the hundredth time he opened his cell phone and scrolled through messages. He hadn't missed one, he knew, but compulsively he'd been checking for the last two weeks. Every time he got a new one from an operative in the Foundation his heart had jumped a little with the thought that it was from him.

"Come in!" he growled at the second knock on his door. He'd originally had his suite in the Foundation surrounded by shoji, but it had been annoying when people called his name instead of knocking for him, so he'd had the outer walls replaced with plaster. Inside were still his paper screens, traditional, neutral. He didn't like when they were covered in paintings; instead they were simple. They went well with the wooden floors. He liked the basic designs, how they were never distracting, how they felt like his. Even when Mukuro came, they were his.

The door opened. At first he didn't look up, staring with disgust down at a report that he couldn't remember reading even though he'd checkmarked it just an hour ago.

"I missed you." That made him raise his head, blinking. "Kyouya."

He didn't have time to respond. He'd already been rising from his seat, pushing it back from the table as he did, but he was pressed back into it, his lips already occupied. A little sound of surprise left him as he felt a familiar fabric against his scalp, gloved fingers combing through his hair, the taste of Mukuro on his tongue as he wrapped an arm around his neck. There was a muffled chuckle from the new arrival as he sat on Kyouya's lap, pressing their bodies together. The kiss was greedy, their noses bumping with their eagerness, tongues flicking together as if they fought for control of it. His eyelids were already half-closed with desire, reaching up to tug at Mukuro's jacket, his shirt. The trident had been left by the door. It looked like he'd removed his boots before coming in. It had taken a while to get him to start doing that.

Their lips parted only long enough to get a breath. He started to say something, to demand where he'd been, but he didn't have enough time to form entire words. His robe was sliding off of his shoulders, exposed skin already tingling with the impression of gloved hands roaming, as if Mukuro were trying to check that nothing had changed, to refamiliarize himself with his body. And he didn't mind. He was used to the gloves, how they never seemed to come off. It was alright.

Long hair tangled in his fingers as the jacket fell to the floor. A shirt joined it soon enough. Their kiss broke again, a string of fluid stretching between them, but somehow his words had fled. He tilted his neck back, arms around slender shoulders taut with deceptive muscles. Stronger than he looked. Everything about him was a lie. But it was alright, too, because Kyouya knew the truth. A little sound left his lips as teeth worried the skin on his throat, teasing the knot there that bobbed when he swallowed hard, combing fingers through indigo hair. The ponytail was gone; he couldn't remember having taken it off. Maybe Mukuro had. His hair fell around his shoulders, tickling their chests as they bumped together.

The illusionist stood, pulling Kyouya with him, loosening the robe till it fell to the wooden floor with the rest of their discarded clothing. He thought he heard his name, mumbled against his shoulder before their lips crashed together again, greedy, muffling tiny sighs of excitement. Cool air sent a shiver down his spine, and Mukuro wrapped his arms around him, exploring his back now, making him shiver for a new reason.

He hated the belts that he insisted on wearing. Having to unfasten one was enough. Kyouya was already giving a hiss of annoyance as he worked on the second, fingers deft but impatient, but his hands were pressed away with a little chuckle as the illusionist pulled it off himself, eyes glittering with amusement. They met only a glare, silently demanding that he hurry. He didn't like to play; he wanted these cloth impediments gone so they could fall onto his futon and get wrapped up together until neither of them could tell where one began and the other ended. That was how they liked to make love-close, pressing against the other as if their skin were just in the way, with as many growls as groans, as many curses as whispers of their names. Never a moment where they weren't pushing, shoving, and above all, moving. Their body heat was shared through friction, sometimes so urgently it was almost painful, but that was how it was satisfying. It was intimate, it was passionate, they didn't need to say a word.

Before Mukuro's clothes had hit the ground he grabbed the brunette by the arm and propelled him towards the futon, grinning with a wicked glint of teeth before he pounced over him, straddling his hips as their lips crashed together again, hungry, demanding, egging each other on with their touches. He could feel the illusionist's breath hot in his mouth, spicy, musky, just like the rest of him and just like Kyouya remembered. His fingers curled into claws behind Mukuro's shoulders as he thrust him off, rolling on top, irritatedly spitting out a strand of hair that had fallen between their faces and clamping teeth over the other's lower lip, smirking in satisfaction at the sound of his yelp and the taste of blood on his tongue. He lapped at the wound, garnering a little moan, pressing tightly against him till it felt like Mukuro's body heat could burn him.

He didn't know when they started moving together, building friction between them, grinding chests and abs against each other with little hisses of pleasure as their tongues wrestled eagerly, arms wrapped around the other's body tightly and legs tangled, toes curling against ankles and knees pressing into thighs as they rolled, tussling as if they were trying to pin the other, battling for position, moans and bitten-off chuckles smothered by kisses as though lips were their favourite taste. They bruised and became sore with the roughness of their assaults on each other, but it was a sweet soreness that just made their skin all the more sensitive for the next touches.

The futon protested under their wrestling, bumping against the wall sometimes, making little creaks when they switched positions, finally settling into a stable place, unbenounced to the both of them, too absorbed in their partner to notice anything but the other. Kyouya's thighs had fallen around Mukuro's hips, ankles crossing behind him as he landed hard on his back for the fiftieth time, hissing encouragement around Mukuro's tongue as he felt a gloved hand pressed against him, fingers rocking a harsh pace over his ass, loosening muscles and earning gasps and muffled moans as they kept grinding against each other, breaths mingling with gathered heat and trails of saliva connecting their tongues. Three curled fingers, long and slender, slid into him and pressed against his sensitivity, sending a jolt through his hips; they jerked against Mukuro's, earning a pleased purr by the perpetrator, earning another bite from the victim, both gasping with lust and pleasure as the hand pressed against his entrance gyrated against him, palm curved around the crook of his legs, leather rubbing at the softest dip of skin in the secret place between his thighs till it felt as if a steadily-throbbing bolt of electricity were gathered between Mukuro's fingertips and palm, jabbing him with the movement of his hand, spreading fingers of energy and sensitivity down to his toes and up to his fingertips, setting the hair on the back of his neck rising as he panted, shuddering, his hips pressed against his lover's and hungrily seeking friction with animal abandon.

The only words that left their lips were the other's name as the hand was withdrawn, a string of clear fluid breaking as it was pulled away and Mukuro replaced the void with his hips, pressing into him without preamble, shivering as he sheathed himself inside his mate and Kyouya groaned, hissing between clenched teeth, levering his legs around the other so he could lift his hips and thrust against him, drawing him deeper with a muffled yell, fingers digging into his back. The feel of leather biting into his hips like claws was familiar, as comfortable as it was electrifying.

And again they wrestled across the mattress, Kyouya fighting his way to his knees and moving just as fast, as hard, as hungrily as his mate, who thrust their hips together till each connection was sore whether he was trapped on his back and pressing upwards or pinning his partner as he drove into him, shuddering with pleasure and excitement. Mukuro pinched his nipples with hot leather, tweaking as they hardened under his fingers, and dropped his hand to wrap it as if around something and then slide it over Kyouya's painfully erect, as yet neglected cock, thumb dipping into his slit and down along his sensitive underside, four fingers and palm pumping along his shaft and now and then cupping his head, massaging against damp leather, squeezing as he writhed, pressing against his thrusts with renewed vigour and voice rising as he called Mukuro's name, his nails scoring deep, angry red ravines across his back and earning bitten-short yells of his own name.

The insistence of his hips was enough to make his demands clear: harder! more! They were met eagerly, sweat slicking their bodies and making the friction smoother, gathering the heat between them as if they could boil over into each other and melt into the bed, endlessly tangled together till they couldn't be pulled apart. It felt as if they already had.

It was with a yell of Mukuro's name that he melted, exploding into his hand, or so it felt, sticky warmth so hot it burned dripping across his chest, the feeling of still being held, still coddled by the hand around him as if to tease out every drop with deft fingers. His hips shuddered and tightened around the throbbing, pulsing, burning pressure inside of him, little whimpers brushing his lips when it didn't slow, the hips slamming against his kept their unforgiving pace for several seconds. He could feel himself spasming inside, both trying to eject the invasion and trying to pull it deeper, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes with the abrupt, violent sensitivity that came after his climax and with a shaky moan he felt Mukuro press as deep inside as he could, hips pressed tightly together and quivering, as he gasped and spilled into him, tipping his head back as he rolled his hips a few extra times, shuddering with satisfaction before he disengaged, parting their hips but pressing their lips together again, this time breathlessly, languorously, only lightly playing with Kyouya's tongue as he settled onto his side and gathered the brunette against him. His arms trembled with fatigue and the overwhelming pleasure of the afterglow as he laid them around Mukuro's chest, tilting his face against his neck as he breathed in the scent of his sweat. His eyes were about to close when Mukuro raised a hand and slowly licked his glove, earning a puzzled frown. Then with a little shiver he realized it was covered in his own fluid, relaxedly gathered on the tip of his tongue as he lapped at it, Kyouya's eyes fastened on the sight as if magnetized, and he swallowed hard. With a luxurious smile and a purr like a large cat he dropped the hand back around the other's waist and kissed him again, sharing his taste and making Kyouya sigh with pleasure. It was satisfying and erotic, equally pleasing him with the end of one round of lovemaking and tantalizing him with the possibility of another. He caught one of the illusionist's hands and slid a gloved finger into his mouth, nibbling at his knuckle as he slid his tongue around it in a swirl, earning a sharply interested look that quickened already growing desire. He liked it when he could tell how much Mukuro wanted him, the way he licked his lips distractedly like some sort of animal, focused like a laser. He liked it how, for as much as he wanted that infuriating man, he wanted Kyouya just as much or more, until it had become an innate need, not just for sex but for contact. He may have been annoyed at how dependent he'd become on Mukuro, but at least he had his revenge: tangling him up with Kyouya so thoroughly he'd never extract himself-and nor would he want to. That was the beauty of it. That was the eroticism. That was the draw.

Sure, he was captured by a man, but he was as much man as Mukuro was. Like two alphas, constantly struggling, always wary of the other but as dependent on their company and their body as the other was. It was a drug. He didn't plan on withdrawal.

Still, for all Mukuro's vehemence now, it felt as if something was missing. Usually he said something, gave a wicked smirk, tried to infuriate him at least once. It felt as if his gaze were melancholy tonight, as though somewhere deep he were admiring Kyouya as though it were the last time he'd see him. Sometimes his touches lingered for a little too long as though trying to imprint themselves on his body. Every once in a while a kiss would be too soft, too slow, trying to lull him into something endlessly intimate. Sometimes he followed where Mukuro led, welcoming the loving gestures, and sometimes he pressed for more.

When Mukuro pulled off his gloves and tossed them across the room to the rest of their clothes he froze, staring up at him with surprise and deep curiosity. "It's blood," Mukuro whispered, showing his bare palms. Kyouya had never seen his hands.

They were red. Stains. He almost asked, but the unfathomable look in his lover's eyes gave him pause and instead he pressed their lips together. Bloodstained or not, those hands quickly proved mindblowing without the barrier of fabric covering them.

"I'll always be here," he whispered once, cupping Kyouya's cheeks lightly as he murmured into his ear. He almost didn't hear what he'd said; and by the time he could have asked, it had been too long to pursue it.

Needless to say, sleep didn't come until the end of the night.

-x-

He woke cold-but it was quickly replaced with the heat of anger. The sheets were chaotic, as they'd been when he'd slipped into sleep, his face buried in Mukuro's fragrant chest. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was his scent, stronger after their extended lovemaking, making him wonder drowsily if he'd dream of the illusionist, too. He couldn't remember what it was he'd dreamed, but it wasn't this.

Waking up to an empty room. His hands clenched on a sheet.

He hadn't gotten to ask where Mukuro had been.

Kyouya dressed with deft hurry, combing his fingers through his hair before he left the room and stormed down the hall. There was no sign of Mukuro having been there but the bed and the satisfaction deep in his stomach, a warm feeling that radiated through his body. It infuriated him.

At the sight of him Kusakabe stood from his desk, looking upset by something. That made Kyouya all the angrier. What, was he cowed now by the threat of violence etched across his boss's face? Because he knew it was there. He felt like biting something, latching on like a bulldog till he felt life drain out of whatever unlucky thing it was. Maybe then he'd feel a little less frustrated.

"We got a message last night, boss," Tetsuya said softly, his brows furrowed. Kyouya didn't hear it at first, and then he scowled.

"Then why didn't you tell me last night?"

"But your message said to leave you alone-" He pulled his phone out as if to find something on it.

"I never sent you a message, Kusakabe," he hissed. He could feel hot steel in his chest. It wasn't at the man in front of him-no, he knew what had happened.

"It was right...it's not here now," he said with puzzlement. "I got a text last night that said not to bother you till morning."

He was seething. That damned illusionist. "What is the message?" he barked impatiently.

For a long moment it was quiet. The whole room had gone quiet. For a moment it irritated him further; and then abruptly he felt his anger draining away like a balloon pricked, shrinking till it was nearly forgotten. The room was suddenly cold. The look in Tetsuya's eyes was like a freezing fist around his spine. He'd never looked at the brunette like that-with a mixture of anxiety, of protectiveness, of such concern. It was disconcertingly close to pity.

"Sawada Tsunayoshi sent it," he said quietly. "Rokudou Mukuro's cover was blown. He was captured. They found his body an hour ago. It looked like he'd been tortured for days, boss."

His vision had narrowed till the room didn't exist anymore. He didn't even see Tetsuya. Looking over his shoulder, he glanced back down the hall towards his room. If he went back quickly, he thought, the bed would still be warm.

"How long dead?" he said quietly. His voice surprised him. It was as cold as his insides.

"Still warm."

His head snapped around to pin him with a steely gaze. "What?"

"His body. He hadn't been dead long."

His vision stopped narrowing because it was all black. Kusakabe managed to catch him when he fainted.

-x-

"I love you, Kyouya."

He pulled back a little, looking up with irritation at the illusionist. He'd never said that before. "Stop talking." He didn't know how to react except to ignore it.

He needed to stop thinking about this.

-x-

"Son of a bitch!"

At first he'd been glared at. The one with the scar on his face had even made as if to attack Kyouya, but Chikusa stopped him and with a little nod to him had ushered the others to another part of the park. He wasn't there for them.

He could still see cherry blossoms in his mind's eye, spiraling above as far as the eye could see and falling feather-soft on his skin as he stared with hatred at the smirking figure over him. He could still feel the sole of his shoe on his chest. And the way the pink glow had caught his scarlet eye and made it flash like fire.

"Son of a bitch!"

-x-

There was a ring in his desk drawer when he went back to his room. He'd huddled in the bed as if he could gather every bit of warmth it still held. He buried his face in the pillow and inhaled Mukuro's scent.

Except that there was no scent. It was like he'd never been there.

And he hadn't.

It had been hours until he'd stood dizzily and gone to his desk as if he could get lost in papers. The first thing he'd seen was the Mist ring. It was the Vongola ring, tucked against a tightly packed stack of papers just out of sight. Paperwork held no escape then.

-x-

Somebody once objected that it was inappropriate, but from then on Kyouya always wore two rings.


End file.
